


leave the mourning to the morning

by mardisoir



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, This is pure fluff, activist burn out sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:45:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9532052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/pseuds/mardisoir
Summary: Enjolras has a very bad day. Grantaire helps.





	

When the doorbell rings, Enjolras seriously considers ignoring it.

It’s been a terrible week. An abysmal week. A disgrace to the democratic world. A _total fucking shit show_ , as Bahorel would say.

Enjolras feels beaten down, defeated. He doesn’t want to see anyone, which is why he skipped tonight’s meeting for the first time in- well, ever, actually. 

Even when he’d had terrible flu last winter he’d shown up, although Combeferre and Joly had taken one look at him then and marched him right back out the door.

He’d texted Courfeyrac earlier to let him know he wouldn’t be there tonight and spent forty minutes sobbing in the shower, the mix of despair and guilt making his stomach churn with nausea and shame.

When the water had started to run cold he’d dragged himself out, dried off and pulled on some the softest clothes he could find. He just wants to lay down in bed in the dark, probably cry some more, and have his existential crisis in peace. 

But the doorbell rings again and whoever it is keeps knocking and Enjolras has a headache, his sinuses throbbing and his eyes swollen from crying. He desperately wants the noise to stop.

He isn’t expecting Grantaire to be on the other side of the door. If he had, he might have taken the time to splash some cold water on his face or tame the absolute wreck his hair has dried into. 

He can’t quite say why, Combeferre and Courf and even Feuilly have all seen him looking worse than this, but it bothers him somehow to be so undone in front of Grantaire. It’s shallow, he thinks, to care about such a trivial thing after everything that’s happened, and that thought alone makes his throat tighten and his eyes burn.

“Shit, Apollo,” Grantaire blurts, one hand flying to his mouth like he immediately wants to swallow the words back down. 

Enjolras turns away and heads for the couch. Grantaire follows him in, pulling the door shut behind him.

“We were worried when you didn’t show up tonight.”

“I texted Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says and his voice is wrecked, it hurts to speak. 

“I know.” Grantaire stands awkwardly to one side of the couch, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed on the furniture.

Enjolras pulls his knees up to his chest and fiddles with the worn hem of his sweatpants.

“You can sit down.”

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks at the same time. His ears turn pink at the tips and he clears his throat, ducking his head and perching on the very edge of the other couch cushion.

“You saw the news?” Enjolras asks, absently picking at one stubborn stray thread.

“Yeah,” there’s something bleak and awful in Grantaire’s voice. “I saw.”

Enjolras nods. “I just…can’t. Today. I can’t go and stand there and talk about how we can make a difference-” his voice breaks.

“Look,” Grantaire says, shifting uncomfortably in place, “everyone has a limit. It’s not a weakness to take a step back sometimes, give yourself some breathing room.”  
  
“I don’t really know how to do that.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire laughs shortly, “I know. You take on so much, it’s like you think you have to singlehandedly save the world.”

If Enjolras was feeling more like himself that might not cut quite so deeply.

“I don’t know how else to be,” he admits.

“It’s not a criticism,” Grantaire hurries to add, “I think it’s amazing. You’re amazing,” he gestures stiltedly, reaching towards Enjolras only to snatch his hand back before he touches him. “But you can’t shoulder everything all the time, it’ll end up breaking you.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Enjolras asks, his voice thick with helpless emotion. 

“Find the balance,” Grantaire shrugs. “Do as much as you can without burning yourself out.”

Burnt out is exactly how he feels right now. The hollow place beneath his heart blackened and spitting, pouring out noxious fumes.

“It’s never enough though,” Enjolras had hoped he was done crying for the evening but his chest feels tight and his eyes are spilling over again. “It doesn’t matter what we do, there’s always another battle, another loss.”   
  
Every time he shuts his eyes he sees the news footage again. The people crying in the street.

“That’s not your fault,” Grantaire says softly, cutting through the memory and Enjolras can’t stop the weird, broken sound that crawls out of his throat.

Because he knows that, of course he knows that. Logically. But emotionally, somehow, he feels responsible. Like he could have done more. Should have done more. Like he’s useless, pointless, standing around making speeches and organising protests that barely anyone pays attention to while shit like this keeps happening.

“Christ,” Grantaire mutters and Enjolras realises that somehow he knows exactly what’s going through his head. “Come here.”

Warm hands tug on his shoulders, pulling him close, tucking his face against Grantaire’s neck. Enjolras screws his eyes shut and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Grantaire smells like warm skin and shampoo and the sharp bite of turpentine.

“I know it seems hopeless sometimes,” Grantaire said gently and Enjolras can feel his voice reverberate through his chest. “It feels like the world is a harsh, cruel place full of uncaring people where terrible things happen every day.”   
  
Enjolras isn’t sure how exactly this is supposed to be helping. Except, despite everything, it kind of is, hearing his own terrible, anxious thoughts put into words.

“You’re just one person, what can you do, right? How much difference can you make?”

Enjolras presses his nose against Grantaire’s collar, damp eyelashes flickering against his throat. He wonders if this is how Grantaire feels all the time, this crushing helpless overwhelming despair. He hopes not.

“But you’re not alone, Enjolras.”

Grantaire lifts a tentative hand and rests it lightly on the back of Enjolras’s head. When he doesn’t protest or move away Grantaire slowly starts to comb his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, tenderly untangling snarls and knots. 

“You’ve got people on your side, at your back. People you can lean on when things get too hard. People who’ll support you. Who believe in you.”

Enjolras sighs against Grantaire’s clavicle and watches through lidded eyes as he swallows. 

“You make a difference,” he says firmly. “You brought those people together and you give them purpose, direction. That’s not nothing. You just have to remember to take care of yourself as well.”

“But what do I do when it feels like this?” Enjolras rests a hand on Grantaire’s chest, lets his knees press up against the jut of Grantaire’s ribs. “Like it’s all just a waste of time. Like no matter how hard we push back, we keep getting knocked down?”

“You get some perspective. Remind yourself why you’re fighting in the first place.” Enjolras’s hair is tangle free but Grantaire keeps running his fingers through it. It’s pleasant. Soothing. “What makes you want to change the world?”

Enjolras doesn’t know how to answer. In that moment, he has no idea. It seems so foolish, so absurd that he ever thought he could make a difference.

“What makes you want to?” he asks instead.

“What?” Grantaire’s hand stills and Enjolras fights the urge to rub up against it like a cat demanding further petting.

“What makes you want to change things?”

“I-”

“I know you do,” Enjolras says, hand tightening in Grantaire’s shirt when he shifts, suddenly tense like he wants to escape. “You act like you don’t, but you do. You care. What gives you perspective?”

Grantaire sighs and Enjolras tilts his head so he can see his face.

“What are you fighting for?”

Grantaire clenches his jaw and he avoids Enjolras’s eyes when he speaks. 

“You.”

His voice is soft and Enjolras isn’t sure at first that he hasn’t misheard.

“I mean, I want things to be better,” Grantaire hurries to add. “For my friends. For people in general. But you, you’re what inspires me to do something about it.”

Enjolras is silent for a long moment, too long perhaps because Grantaire starts to move again, as though he’s going to pull away.

“Why?”  
  
“Because you care,” Grantaire says simply. “Too much sometimes, but you have so much conviction. You believe people can be better. And that makes me want to be better.” His voice is very quiet. Intimate. “To prove you right.”

“You have too much faith in me.”

“I don’t think so.”

Grantaire lets his arms fall away from Enjolras as they speak. Enjolras would have been quite content to stay tucked up under his arm all night, but he doesn’t want to take advantage. It’s a kindness that Grantaire had been willing to extend to him as a friend, after all. Nothing more.

He pulls back so they’re sitting side by side again, Grantaire facing the room, Enjolras facing Grantaire.

“I didn’t know.”

“Hm?” Grantaire still won’t look at him.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Grantaire smiles tightly. “Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my reputation as the apathetic nihilist of the group.” He runs a hand through his hair and glances at the clock in the kitchen. “I should go, you probably have stuff to do.”

“Stay,” Enjolras catches hold of his wrist and releases it just as quickly. He feels unbalanced, exposed. But he doesn’t want Grantaire to leave.

“If I’m bothering you, I mean I just showed up-”

“Please, R. Stay, I don’t,” Enjolras ducks his head, hiding behind his hair. “I don’t want to be on my own.”

He can feel Grantaire’s eyes on the side of his face but he keeps his eyes locked on his toes poking out from his too-long sweatpants, on the messy sewing job he’d done to fix the hole in his sock because they were a gift from Joly two birthdays ago and they have little cactuses on them.

The sight of those haphazard little stitches makes his chest hurt. He feels like he’s held together with the same shoddy strings, drawn too tightly at the edges. 

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Grantaire asks.  
  
“What?”

“You say you don’t know why you’re fighting right now, and I get that. But it doesn’t matter, because we stand with you anyway. Do you know why?”

Enjolras shakes his head.  


“You’re our call to arms, Enjolras. Our rousing cry.”  
  
Enjolras stares at Grantaire, who looks calmly back at him. He’s not sure he’s ever seen him look so serious.  
  
“You throw light on the darkness, you lead the charge. But it’s not just about the fight, it’s about supporting everyone who fights alongside you. And you do that. You know your people and you sit and speak with them and you listen to them and you value them. No one person has to carry the weight of all this alone, we know that because _you tell us that._ ”

Enjolras’s cheeks burn. “Ferre and Courf are better at that stuff-”

“You all play to your strengths and you’re all valued. But I think we forget you’re only human sometimes.”

There’s something remorseful and a little bitter in Grantaire’s voice and Enjolras is working on instinct when he reaches out to catch hold of his hand.  
  
“You always seem so resolute, so certain,” Grantaire says after a moments pause. “It’s easy to think you never have days like this.”  
  
“Everyone has days like this,” Enjolras says and Grantaire quirks a wry little grin at him.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Enjolras blinks. “Oh.”  
  
“That’s why it’s important to share the burden. Why Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Feuilly and everyone else switches out on being the person who stands firm and spreads information and resources and rouses ire, so that some days they can curl up under a blanket and cry for a while or ignore the news and rest.”  
  
“You pay more attention than we give you credit for,” Enjolras says quietly and Grantaire shrugs.  
  
“Yeah, well, you work harder than you give yourself credit for. Some days you’re our fearless leader and some days you’re just a kid with a migraine and ridiculous bedhead.” Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’s fingers. “It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. We can take it in turns to be scared and to be strong. To hope and be hopeless. You’re always the brave one, let someone else carry you for a while.”

Enjolras tries to speak past the lump in his throat. “How did you know I have a migraine?”

“You’re doing that squinty frown thing,” Grantaire reaches over slowly and smooths the tip of one finger over the furrow between Enjolras’s eyebrows.

Enjolras shifts closer on the couch, leaning towards Grantaire as he turns towards him and then, just like that, they’re kissing. A brush of lips, soft and sweet. Enjolras parts his own and for a moment there’s wetness and warmth but then Grantaire is pulling away, eyes wide and panicked.  
  
“Shit, sorry. Sorry. I didn’t- I should leave. Now.” He’s on his feet and walking towards the door before Enjolras can calm his racing heart.

“Wait,” Enjolras stumbles off the couch and Grantaire pauses, looks back at him. “I want to thank you.”

Grantaire’s face twists. “Apollo, no. You don’t have to-”

“That’s not what I meant.” Enjolras clenches digs his nails into his palms. “I want to thank you for coming over and checking on me and being kind and making me feel better.”  
  
Grantaire nods, rubbing one hand over the back of his neck. “Of course, no problem,” he turns to go.  
  
“But that’s not why I kissed you,” Enjolras continues and Grantaire stops still, looking back at him. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”  
  
“I thought I kissed you,” Grantaire says, almost smiling.  
  
“You can kiss me this time, if you want?” Enjolras offers, taking a cautious step towards him.  
  
“Oh,” Grantaire says, “alright then.” And he does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Love, Ire & Song by Frank Turner
> 
> This was originally part of a longer slow-burn wip that got scrapped, I liked this scene and given recent events I decided to post it anyway ❤︎


End file.
